The Eyes Have It
by LittleMender
Summary: Tag to 3x19 Every Rose Has Its Thorn. He had trusted her with his secrets and part of his secret self. He had seen her anger and fear, her uncertainty and faith, her affection and compassion, her kindness and hope. It was all in her eyes.


**I loved this episode and felt compelled to write what is more a meandering of Jane's musings than a tag. I don't own The Mentalist, but if I did, I would have cut part of the Naomi-related scenes to make room for a longer final scene. Because we all could've used it.**

THE EYES HAVE IT

Erica Flynn had empty eyes.

Possessed of a sweet beauty, she exuded warmth. Her voice was like honey, and her legs were fantastic.

But there was nothing in those eyes.

The game was nearly over now. He had the pieces of the puzzle, only needed to drop them into place, and he was sure everything would be wrapped up by end of day. It was early morning still, but Lisbon would be in soon, and he sat on the brown leather couch having tea in the bullpen waiting for her, wanting to give her a chance to settle in before he made his report and drew her into his play. Time passed and he became lost in his musings over the odd and—for him at least—draining events of the past few days and the beautiful but deadly Erica.

She had zeroed in on him because he had taken aim at her. He had known at their first meeting that she was guilty, and she had discerned that he was at least suspicious of her, making him the one she needed to fool. Over the course of the investigation, she had invaded his personal space, pushed his buttons, insisted he had feelings for her, leaned into him when they walked side by side, "presenting" herself in the way of nearly every species wanting to attract the opposite sex.

The day after her husband's body had been found, he had gone to Symphony, without any real plan except the usual: observe and harass. Erica's determination to help him "find true love" provided the perfect in, and he had welcomed the easy opportunity to do both to his heart's content. But they hadn't been alone in the recording studio more than a minute when he wasn't sure if she was trying to seduce him or merely throw him off his game.

"_We may love with our hearts, but first we lust with our eyes. Don't you agree?"_

She had stood so close to him that he could feel her breath wisp across his face, his cheek, his lips. It took everything he had not to draw away. Her attempt at seduction would have stood a better chance if he had seen any indication of what she had not so subtly intimated. But there was nothing, no flash of heat, not even a hint of dilation.

She had asked a series of questions, to which he had given, for the most part, non-committal answers. Eventually she pushed into what she knew to be vulnerable areas, and he had allowed her the leeway he needed to get himself further along in the game, even though he had felt himself shaking with anger and indignation at her presumption.

A few minutes later, when she pushed the issue of his having feelings for her, she had again attempted to dominate with her nearness, standing before him as he sat, placing herself within his reach, daring him to yield or flinch. Even though he could feel the body warmth emanating from the points of fraction-of-an-inch-near contact, he had refused to withdraw, resisting anything she could throw at him. Or press against him, as it turned out. But when she tried to make love to him with those empty eyes, that's when he was more certain than ever that she had murdered her husband.

"_If that's the case, . . . prove it."_

She should have known better than to issue that flirtatious challenge. It was her first careless mistake. Once his video interview was finished, once he had made the accusation, once she had tried nearly every manipulation trick in her book—widening her eyes, feigning hurt and shock, maintaining her innocence and standing _so close_—all he had wanted to do was leave. Get away. And it wasn't because anything she had said was true. Outside of the whole interview being a ruse, he had meant every word he'd said.

That he didn't have feelings for her, that he wasn't attracted to her, that in an ideal world he really, _really would love_ to have a pet dragon.

It was, he knew in part, because she reminded him of himself. Oh, he would never have killed his spouse, no matter how far south things had gone. But the manipulation, the con, the willingness to do or say anything to get what she was after, the darkness of heart . . . those he could identify with.

And, she frankly just gave him the creeps.

So, he had collected his copy of his interview and headed back to the bureau to get Sarah Harridan's video (Erica's alibi), his plan already brewing. Intending to play the interviews in a side-by-side comparison in his attic room using his computer, he had only needed to get his hands on another laptop. There were literally dozens he could've "borrowed", but for some reason, it was Lisbon's laptop he had to have, so, while she gave orders to her agents, it was to Lisbon's office he had gone. Sneaking it out on her was half the fun, if there was fun in this to be had.

Lisbon had been intent on other lines of inquiry—the ex-wife, the blackmailer and her victims—but was fine with his pursuit of his own theory. It was good to tell her what he was doing, keep her abreast, even report and have a reason to get back to her. It was good to be able to be honest and open with her about _something_. It was good to feel her trust in him, as far as it went. The only reason he had secreted her laptop away without asking was because he was so looking forward to showing her rather than telling.

That was always where the real fun lay.

At his third encounter with Erica, he had reiterated his accusation and proceeded to show her just how she had deceived the sweetly hopeful Ms. Harridan, nonplussed when she pointed out the glaring flaw in his deductions but even more committed to seeing it through and proving her guilt. At that point she had ratcheted up her web weaving and actually touched him, stroking his arm, reminding him again of his romantic potential, his desirability. He had to admit there was a time when he would have recognized the potential for attraction if not the possibility, would have even admired her abilities. But time and circumstances—the very circumstances to which she continued to allude—had changed him.

After that late-evening exchange, he had returned to the CBI, somewhat surprised that Lisbon had already left for the evening. He knew she had taken Rigsby and Van Pelt to the singles mixer, and a call down to holding had told him they had the blackmailing Naomi in custody for the night, slated for an early morning interrogation. Lisbon leaving early meant Lisbon arriving early. He could wait until the morning.

And that's what he was doing on the brown couch. His musings ended, his tea cup empty, the reward for his patience arrived in a blur of black and red. He walked to her office and paused on the threshold, watching her for a moment before she realized he was there. She had gotten a good night's rest, she was relaxed, she looked good in red. And when she looked up at him, her eyes said she was glad to see him.

He gave her a rundown of his activities, and they debated the case, her leaning back in her chair as she challenged him, him leaning in with each answer. He liked Erica for it, and she seemed to like everybody else. Would she ever get over arguing with him out of sheer stubbornness? He certainly hoped not. Her eyes would by turns narrow and blaze, widen and question, soften and smile. Honest eyes. Concerned and uncertain eyes when she asked about his obsession, relieved and believing eyes at his answer.

"_Because she doesn't think I'm smart enough to catch her."_

Even with such a perfect exit line, he hesitated to leave, leaning in further still at her teasing and final question. Laughing, dancing, beguiling eyes.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""

Now he was worried over those eyes a little. Erica had had the effrontery to sit on his couch, again trying to fabricate an intimacy to which he could not aspire. The longer she perched next to his inhospitably unmoving legs, the more irked he became, and he had to nearly grit his teeth to maintain his relaxed façade and keep from rolling her off onto the floor. Only one person shared his couch, and just as that thought crossed his mind, on cue or by conjure, Lisbon appeared to play her part. He needn't have worried—her eyes were masked. Masked, not empty. Huge difference.

The trap was sprung—sort of a bait and switch and now-you-see-it-now-you-don't with a note and a body, and Erica betrayed herself. Jane felt badly for Peter the pawn as he entered the room after hearing her declaration of non-love, the boy's eyes red-rimmed and swollen with hurt and devastation. But murder was murder, and broken hearts mend usually, and Peter seemed to move through the five stages of loss remarkably quickly.

The hour was late, and he was glad the whole affair was over, and even though Erica Flynn's words of easily manipulated judges and juries had struck a nervous chord in him, he was confident of how it would all turn out. They just needed to _see_ the hurt boy with still red-rimmed but now determined eyes and the woman, the widow, the Medusa with empty eyes.

Now he just needed to get Lisbon's laptop back where it belonged. She had missed it, her eyes scanning every room she entered the few times he'd seen her today. He wouldn't need to sneak now, just hand it over. He had solved the case, and justice and the law would be satisfied. No harm, no foul. All forgiven.

His attic door stood open—he knew he had closed it, and something gripped his throat at the thought of the dangers that still lurked always so near. He edged closer to the threshold and heard a click then a voice—_his_ voice. Lisbon sat at his makeshift desk, staring at his open laptop, its electronic glow setting her features in sharp relief against the surrounding darkness, a digital Renaissance portrait in profile.

_Oh god, she's watching the interview._

His impulse was to enter the room, slam his laptop shut and make his excuses. He could play at being uncomfortable—not much of a stretch there—until he made her too uncomfortable to stay or ask questions or even think about what she'd heard so far. He took one step into the room. Then—noticing her head incline toward the screen and getting a better look at her face—he froze in place, his eyes mesmerized by hers as he watched the flow of emotions move through those jade worlds.

_Please. Don't let there be pity._

Pain and wonder. Compassion and sadness. Grace and affection. Heartfelt. Sincere. _Genuine_. No pity. Not for him. Not from her.

That wasn't all there was to the interview, but her ability and willingness to listen to anymore was used up and gone. She reached out and paused the video without closing it and sat looking at his stilled image. Tilting her head to the left, her hair fell in a curtain that hid her face from him, and she sighed, a tremor giving the sound jagged edges.

He needed to make a very quiet exit. The only thing more embarrassing than Lisbon watching the video of his matchmaker interview was Lisbon knowing he had watched her watching it. Gliding silently sideways and back out of the room, he descended the stairs with light footfalls until he reached a landing several floors down so that she wouldn't hear the creak and latch of the stairwell door.

It was odd, he thought, how he had felt violated as Erica Flynn's empty eyes had watched him answer her questions, watched him say those things. His reaction to Lisbon watching was altogether different. He could trust her, _had_ trusted her, with his secrets, with part of his secret self, and she had never looked at him with judgment or even disappointment. In seven years, he had seen her anger and fear, her uncertainty and faith, her affection and compassion, her kindness and hope.

Seven years. And it was all in her eyes.

**END**


End file.
